Review:​Tonya became the ideal 90’s woman comparable to Hillary Clinton, until the well-known scandal against Nancy Kerrigan caused those same people to now call her “poor white trash.” Thus, in I, Tonya, we get a first look at her real self, challenging our discernment on which facts are true and which ones are lies. Even Tonya recently said how the cast made her experience watching the completed movie so special, possibly a sure-fire authentication seal toward everything seen here.

It first throws out a brief disclaimer: "Based on irony free, wildly contradictory, totally true interviews with Tonya Harding and Jeff Gillooly.” Fitting enough, a creative implementation of the characters’ interviews framed under different aspect ratios gives the extra needed depth inside their blatant thoughts. Editor Tatiana S. Riegel (Million Dollar Arm, The Way Way Back) masterfully tugs out the film’s atmosphere with fourth wall breaks thrown in to complement the interview segments. Inside the narrative, the Scorsese-esque discussions appear to pathetically lie at each other, when in subliminal actuality they’re pathetically lying at you.

Tonya early on wears a rabbit fur coat representing her parental history: father taught her rabbit hunting but soon left the family, never to return, and mother crafted many of her outfits. This shambled experience resembles that coat: despite attempts try to lipstick the societal pig, the ugliness of the crime against nature remains, a money hunt revealed by Steven Rogers’ (Love the Coopers, P.S. I Love You) script.

At the instant she becomes the first ice skater in America to land the triple axel, the tense anticipation perfectly captures her mid-jump face in super slow motion. Then expectations after the monumental moment crank up beyond impractical heights, leading to a Rocky montage that reaches an intense level unexpected from a graceful sport. Pretty soon, lingered shots make you ponder Tonya’s identity; near the end before the big Olympic performance, she looks in the mirror, slowly on the verge of tears, melting away her forced smile. Where did those tears originate though?

A lot of the credit goes to first-time Oscar nominee Margot Robbie’s (Neighbours, The Wolf of Wall Street) hard-edged mannerism as Miss Harding. In a quick teenage flashback, her insecure voice trembles while her lip slides to the side. In young adulthood, she slowly turns into her abusive mom, the plain sadness screaming behind her false eyes. Plus, in recreating Tonya’s Olympic performance, her tearful pose is spot on: the hand on hip, the palm out, the whimpering face, it looks exactly like the real photographed moment!

The effectiveness in recreating a controversial figure would have slipped on the ice without the feature’s next best quality: Allison Janney, (The Help, The West Wing) who plays Tonya’s crabby drill sergeant of a mother. Since Tonya’s mother has long avoided civilization, the filmmakers ultimately relied on home videos to help Janney. The same goes to the other cast members: besides the girl playing young Tonya, they all deserve a 6.0 in technical merit.

Although more should have been learned on the racial tension inside the sport of ice skating at the time. Clearly it got bad enough for Tonya to escape the buttheads (as she called them) in her home state of Oregon, yet the dim focus implemented in Tonya Harding’s feminization example through a woman’s sport fails to demonstrate figure skating’s empowerment across the entire world, it’s just the American rednecks’ perspective.

The worst issue concerns the extreme unlikability of everyone, especially the mother, who jumpstarts the unpleasant experience using a hairbrush to graphically beat Tonya off the rink. The script gives her no motivation: why does she want Tonya to succeed on the ice? Instead, she ends up a horrible person void of any good traits. Watching the massive egos depressed me the whole evening afterward, proving why I, Tonya lacks the full empowerment it intends.

Going back on the happier elements, Jennifer Johnson (20th Century Women, Beginners) designs the competition wardrobes worn by Tonya to mirror the real ones, the subtle cues in color to reveal the quality of glitter-glammer found only in the sheen of an icy surface.

Like Tonya’s sparkly, highly saturated dresses that contrast her raggedy brown rabbit coat, America always desires something to love and something to hate. She represents America’s genuine face, the polar opposite of women’s old expectations, the wholesome American family the judges prefer. Topping it off, she straight-up accuses you the viewer of abusing her.

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Review:​One time in high school, a student in my class sent me an article on the declining chocolate in chocolate mines, signaling the eventual end of chocolate. As you figured, he proudly wanted to give me an example of a fake news article since our class at the time was focused on said topic. Now, aligned against such relevant topics, Steven Spielberg initiates his masterful silent storytelling skills once again alongside his ability to grip the viewer right away as he elucidates the US Government’s pinnacle point in The Post.

First, a little trivia: did you know the name “Spielberg” is Hebrew for “play city?” Actually, no; it is a German-Austrian name for “play mountain,” inspiring his first film production company, “Playmount Productions.” If I didn’t tell the truth, you would’ve believed my fake news. In the same way, the script by Liz Hannah and Josh Singer (Spotlight) allows each character a chance to distinguish reality based on the given resources. The narrative format here complements the piece, starting off with a gritty, desaturated look of soldiers in Vietnam that suddenly turns into a dark bullet storm in the misty rainforest. After this tense first scene, terrific efforts come out by every player involved, big or small, a proper amount of time given on each to shine in their talent.

Although, Spielberg’s hard efforts ultimately lead to a bland inconsistency. The promising style established in the first scene, including the incorporation of old news footage and old movie posters such as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, later gets abandoned. Consequently, the dialogue builds up forced unemotional moments until a cringeworthy so-called-emotional monologue by Meryl Streep shuts off most viewers.

Only three women carry significant roles, one a useless, pathetic wife who encourages her husband, one an employee in the Washington Post who barely contributes anything important, and the main female lead, reporter Katharine Graham, who falls along the line of a notion for women overcoming the impossible rather than a plausible human. If instead told from the perspective of Katharine Graham’s partner, Ben Bradlee, then the script might have been able to spot precisely which political agenda to focus on, rather than attempting to cover everything that causes Twitter to crash.

Yes, Barack Obama’s lies about the doubling fuel efficiency were horrible, but guess what’s equally horrible? When a recreated historical DC moment in a period of Civil Rights and a War in Vietnam leaves out non-White people. Why ignore the perspectives of Blacks and the Vietnamese? They matter too! Beside the cultural impacts it glazes past, this ordinary Oscar bait ends up #FakeNews, exactly contradictory to its supposed attempts!

The Post concocts several false facts, proving its small level of care toward fake news compared against its reliance on a relevant issue to gain sympathy attention. Instead of acknowledging how The New York Times actually published the story before the Washington Post, the narrative points pull a Fox News mindset by an exclusive cafeteria selection process to pick which accurate events will best complete the dramatic story they think would interest above the truth.

Of all history’s Best Picture nominees, Amblin Entertainment’s godlike depiction of the Washington Post trumps in its hypocrisy over the rest—even the Washington Post itself lied before: look at its story on Russian hacking the power grid. These Democratic filmmakers intend to brainwash you into thinking the people deserve the ultimate power, except they should not worship themselves if they rely on inanimate print and ink.

On the other hand, we must understand Spielberg’s warning signs of the ugly head of fakeness: in the news, on your prescription medications, and amongst your friendships. The flaws cut deeper knowing our current president has told six times more falsehoods in his first ten months in office than Obama told throughout his entire presidency. Thus, The Post causes us to ponder the realities: Government today must say no to fake news.

I admit I too pick often the daily highlights to share on Instagram. Just a few weeks ago, a green element parked right in front of my own green element; I had to decide whether it deserved a spot on my Instagram feed: does it fit my selective online identity? Such tiny moments turn us into modes of selective identity, much like The Post’s selective identity that the Washington Post saved America. Chiefly: truthfulness starts with the choices you make.

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Leetaru, Kalev. “'Fake News' And How The Washington Post Rewrote Its Story On Russian Hacking Of The Power Grid.”Forbes. 1 Jan 2017. Web. <https://www.forbes.com/sites/kalevleetaru/2017/01/01/fake-news-and-how-the-washington-post-rewrote-its-story-on-russian-hacking-of-the-power-grid/#121ccf677ad5>.

Review:​Paul Thomas Anderson’s instant classics, There Will be Blood and Boogie Nights, gained well-deserved attention alright, yet his other acclaimed works, including Inherent Vice and Punch-Drunk Love are less noticed by the public. It’s understandable; I particularly found it hard to care about the bond between the main couple in Anderson’s newest project, Phantom Thread. Though one can still greatly appreciate the artistry created here to depict desire above devotion beneath fashion’s puppet strings.

Several scenes express the same meticulous directorial attention of stitching a hem, so much so that even a mundane scene such as spreading butter on toast stresses the senses. Anderson’s vigilant craft demonstrates the sly nature of his first-hand man, Daniel-Day Lewis, through the quietest actions. Day-Lewis’s seamstress role feels he never was meant to marry, perhaps influenced by London’s fashion scene, although his inner conviction seems challenged once the dialogue between his new concubine arouses a need to restrict another's lust.

The visual cues suggest the look of a live stark-white studio photoshoot under diffused harsh lights to evoke heated passion, a sensation mellowed out by a gentle, warm fireplace glow until the cold breakfast table counteracts the calmness. Soon later into the runtime, snow graces its presence, completing the emotional glide along the film’s distressed ribbon. The supposed visual flaws in the ugly wallpaper heightened by the high ISO setting simply add to the visual flavor, making the whole sum of its parts reflect the era.

Again, the fashions really tell the story; the costumes designed by Mark Bridges (The Artist, Inherent Vice) rock to the wind of the citizens’ visualized longings, the wardrobes’ shapes and tones either emphasizing the female form for lust or simplifying the appearance for true love.

Beyond the visual elements, the musical score by Jonny Greenwood (Inherent Vice, There Will be Blood) orchestrates the beauty of the piano and the haunt of the strings to anticipate danger in the room based on the level of voluptuous nature. It almost seems like the crypt threaded Greenwood’s tones to trigger your own cravings by ringing your ears until they turn a deep crimson hue.

Each character’s realized past comes from whatever they could or could not control including the seamstress’s new concubine, who is introduced by saying she gave every piece of herself as he forced her to work on only four hours of sleep. Meanwhile, the seamstress’s house servant, played by one of this year’s Oscar nominees, Lesley Manville, sustains a delicate eye to keep our attention toward the subjects of managed focus in the home.

However, one critical problem damages the overall production: it seldom comments on present day issues, instead exploiting the time to show off pretty European clothes. The full reality of lustful men at the time gets the boot, both in comparing it to the women they took advantage of alongside how it links back with today.

Phantom Thread thus should be expected to fall out of public memory because it uses an autocratic political stand in service of the Oscars it thinks it deserves. Forget aiming to please multiple generations with a compassionate story anyone can see themselves in, it only has its sights on the temporary 90th Annual Academy Awards with its all-White setup in mind, since Paul Thomas Anderson clearly knows deep down that the voters fancy prestigious British motion pictures.

Consequently, Phantom Thread romanticizes two selfish leads, turning out an orgasmic experience rather than a compassionate one. So, in regard to the Weinstein scandals plaguing Hollywood right now, Phantom Thread does more harm than good. Think back to Fifty Shades of Grey, the unhealthy relationship depicted in Phantom Thread perfectly recreates those torturous sex games, except in a classier fashion. Why then exactly did this score a Best Picture nomination while James Franco, a recent actor accused of sexual misconduct, got snubbed a nomination? It makes no sense.

Hopefully, after time dissipates, one can enjoy Phantom Thread’s artistry. Hopefully, after a decade or two, this movie won’t scream, “Oscar-bait,” but be appreciated for how the well-staged tension gives a strong sample of the direction from the brilliant Mr. Paul Thomas Anderson.

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Review:​Wow, can you believe it? A horror movie released back in February got an Oscar nomination for Best Picture! Upon further inspection on Get Out, does it really deserve the four Academy Award nominations it received? Does it really deserve to join the ranks of The Godfather, Citizen Kane, Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, On the Waterfront, and the other Hollywood greats? Let’s take a look see.

It does seem to kick off to a good start: a White girl takes her Black boyfriend to her parents’ home in the middle of nowhere, stopped by a racist cop on the way. Then when he meets her folks, they appear shut off by his obvious skin color, things soon seem spookier when they appear to house slaves at their home. Here, Jordan Peele demonstrates the talent in his craft. He establishes the events perfectly with the right balance between drama and tension—he evokes crucial questions, ones revolving around the mystery of the girl’s family.

The family’s dinner conversations keep the tension graph curving steadily higher, the genius sound design work catapulting us into the protagonist’s discomfort. Each of the family members seem average at first, except the brother seems to always be on some sort of drug while the mother spins a spoon along her coffee mug in a hypnotic fashion.

These little signs of the brilliance behind Peele’s direction fall deeper into the hidden psychology behind our lead character. The now iconic shot of Daniel Kaluuya’s read tear-stricken eyes has been widely seen everywhere for a reason: it draws an iconic narrative point when we know just about everything we need to know about his character, including how his origins influence his fears.

Expectedly, things turn freakier and freakier as his visit goes on. As he takes time to interact with their “slaves,” they always smile uncannily at him, as if even his own kind wants to get him. As his knowledge of the family becomes clearer, the screen works to throw you into his pit of blackness.

While Peele’s genius direction ensured success, the acting really makes it stand out, especially Kaluuya’s unstable, doomed performance. Even the smaller roles stand out, including Betty Gabriel, who forces herself into your memory as one of the family’s supposed slaves.

While the directing and acting were beyond exceptional, several major problems sink the film deeper into its own doom. Throughout the Black visitor’s interracial experience, nothing tells us what the White girlfriend thinks of her parents or anyone else, many subtle actions just tell us to look at the villains as typical motiveless horror movie forces. It becomes way more noticeable in the climax, which drives off into a usual horror climax scenario, complete with a CGI flame which looks made in a student’s midterm project.

But worst of all, Get Out takes an immature, hate fueled stand on racism.

Essentially: Black people are mentally screwed by those predatorial White people. Um… okay? Even if true historically, what Peele did here is unacceptable to White people. Yeah, we hear about when the media degrades colored people, but guess what? That includes people descended from Europe too! Remember the awful 2004 “comedy” White Chicks? Even the recent Birth of a Nation created a Black Lives Matter propaganda to label White people as the enemy. Several crass comedies over the last several decades even supply these stereotypes about Whiteness: greedy by the love of money, prideful in beauty, usually aggressive if Italian, often the ones labeled as the ones in the wrong about the meaning of life.

Get Out embraces these stereotypes, even taking things a step further by demonstrating the dangers of interracial dating and marriage. I mean, interracial dating originally set the protagonist up in preventable disaster in the first place! Talk about taking fifty steps backwards in societal progress. I can certainly tell you that I know plenty of interracial couples who live very happy, healthy marriages.

Despite what this movie wants to scare you out of, you should never think all other races want to damage your psychology. One of my best friends is Bulgarian, my coworker is Black, and I have had complete respect for them both because of their actions, not their ethnicities.

If we can take the extinguishment of fear communicated by Peele’s acute vision and understand how we’re much better at interracial communication than we give ourselves credit for, then I guarantee our globe will turn into a kinder place.

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Review:​Having partial Italian blood in my veins, I particularly enjoy when that culture gets some rare, overdue representation in cinema. Now, after the opening credits of Call Me by Your Name kick off the film’s wide survey of art history’s continual impact on Italy’s culture, temptation strongly urges me to book a flight to Italy! Director Luca Guadagnino (A Bigger Splash) succeeds at raising immediate love for Italy’s artful history with a masterful focus on the little details crafted to immerse you into the Jewish-American-Italian-French family over the summer.

The production crew’s delicate artistry swells your eyes, thanks to Guadagnino’s relaxing artistic direction. The cinematography by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom overblows the sun’s highlights in the frame until the snow peacefully mellows out the inner chaos. The thin, loose fabric costumes designed by Giulia Piersanti practically weep while they turn their wearers into zombies decomposed by pain. To top it off, the calm dancing musical selection’s reflective piano tune juxtaposes the visualized teen angst.

Those small enriched elements craft the protagonist of the story, Elio, a teenager who hunches over the piano, overcome by his insecure fervor, his space evaded by flies, supposedly awaiting someone like St. John the Baptist to pull him out of his hell hole. Then once Oliver, the family researcher, comes to stay over the summer, he spends extra time in the backyard pool alongside his new friend, a confusing curiosity in mind.

With each performance fueled by the struggle against the anonymous, the two lead characters grow up over the painful season. The harsh summer weather outside seems to kill them both slowly in support to one of the feature’s many stated philosophies: “nature has a cunning way of finding our weakest spot.”

Though unfortunately, some cultural issues outside the visual cues still taint the experience, including a couple of stereotypical old, angry comic relief Italians who disrupted the natural flow of the genre. Oliver’s story also lacks enough establishment: where does his romantic infatuation to a seventeen-year-old boy originate? The closest thing to a justification about his romantic spark is the Jewish background they both share, which still lacks needed prominence within the relationship.

The two other female roles, Elio’s mother and girlfriend, seem to subsist just to comfort his pain, the mother in particular could have been written out completely without hurting the script. Yet European masculinity carries even greater problems in depiction. Oliver is the one representative of America, a country with a higher age of consent than Italy, so this film supposedly encourages pedophilia, as if the United Kingdom believes their legal system has a better understanding of existentialism than the United States.

Although, the homosexual love still rings true in its natural approach. It starts innocent enough as Elio and Oliver just so happen to share a bathroom, the toilet in plain sight from the bed’s perspective. As time goes by, the connection they share turns into one of forbidden fruit. In one scene, passion between the two brims in the majesty of the mural of Adam’s creation, in another, Olio’s loneliness resorts him to ejaculate into a cored apricot. The chemistry between Armie Hammer (The Social Network) and Timothée Chalamet (Interstellar, Lady Bird) creates the impeccably heartful moments, tension set by emphasized distance in the framing.

But most of all, the technicians’ subtle cues acutely capture the essence of being a teenager trying to figure out sexuality: the crew dresses Chalamet to look scrawny in his wardrobe, his hair messed up, his strut insecure, as editor Walter Fasano (A Bigger Splash) completes it by lingering on the star’s complexion to show a teen's dim psychology. These elements, when together, stick hard into your arteries a good long hour after the motion picture’s emotive final frame.

Looking beyond the uneasy subject matter, a very plain application can be taken away: love hurts. Even I myself, a heterosexual, felt Elio’s heartbreak before, since an old desire to love a certain someone back in high school continues to hurt me today; I know loving somebody you cannot hold hurts more physically than emotionally. Despite those unpredictable moods, just remember: loved ones, including friends and family, not just romantical partners, are always there offer free hugs. These are the ones who most want to see the best come out of you and take action in your life to make sure you get to your highest point. This key takeaway of Call Me by Your Name reminds us all that whatever, however, you think, you deserve love.

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Sources:​“Age of Consent in Italy.”Age of Consent. Web. <https://www.ageofconsent.net/world/italy>.

Review:​Meet Molly Bloom. Twelve years after a stray branch ended her Olympic skiing career in a crash, her illegal gambling operation sent her on trial. From her teen life onward, she has had no heroes, nor does she trust anyone; thus she started to rebel against male domination through an operation in games of poker in 2003. Her routine attracted countless players across the nation, plus celebrities Ben Affleck, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Tobey Maguire. As she managed these hot-headed men, eyeshadow and mascara buried her face, perhaps designed to complement the various displays of all that her beautiful cleavage can do.

In the first five minutes of Molly’s Game, you learn her traits beyond being a stereotypical steamy Vegas chick, thanks to the famous actress in Molly’s role. Jessica Chastain’s (The Help, Zero Dark Thirty) smooth husky voiceover narration sucks you in right away, a portrayal depicting the true anti-wife identified by her greed. Then once the worst thing hits her operation, Chastain slows down her expressions into a sad conflicted face.

You learn lots of information about the other people she meets in the way they talk down at each other. Each connection made between the characters starts off effectively tense, driven by gender dominance, then several later turn quite personal, guaranteed to sway you parents out there. Molly’s court attorney even forced his daughter to read The Crucible, setting off common daddy issues between the two that creates a more believable relationship. Idris Elba (Beasts of No Nation), one of the film’s several noteworthy actors, deserves some well-earned awards buzz from the way he plays off Chastain as the court attorney.

Molly’s autobiography of the same name, adapted by Aaron Sorkin (A Few Good Men, The Social Network) fluidly translates clever informative expositions, beyond just the chilly narrative dialogue, into a nonlinear narrative which explains around poker’s rules to describe Molly's legal case. The dialogue focuses in on everyone’s discussion about the law in relation to convincing Molly about the true worst thing ever. Case in point: one consultant tells her at the start of her operation, “Don’t break the law while breaking the law.”

It’s quite transparent however that Sorkin is a first-time director: his efforts to generate sympathy, as much as it accomplishes the job’s necessities, pays off relatively little to match the genuine intended joy on Molly’s part. The fast edit cuts spliced amongst still images and historical tapes straight up copies the visual style of The Big Short, except with bland pacing alongside an often-defocused camera. Ultimately, the visual decisions around Molly scrambles the subject of people’s worship without enough originality.

Molly’s grudges against the Russian mafia likewise draw back the experience a bit further, as if they’re merely plot devices in service of Vladimir Putin. In fact, through actions like the large amounts of Molly’s chest shown or the spicy descriptions about poker, Sorkin falls victim to the “Male Gaze,” meaning the way men and women dress/behave/etc. in the media caters to men’s sexual urges. Such a movie about a woman could have used a stronger authenticity under a Female Gaze! Other young women may consequently not see themselves in her place, and prefer an actress who resembles the real Molly Bloom in age and natural hair color, rather than watching some huge celebrity’s studio-push toward an Oscar.

I’m probably scraping the barrel right now, yet I still recommend this energized biopic! Thanks to the dialogue more so than the direction, the claustrophobic energy of illustrated geometric degree angles never dies off, apparently shuffling you into Molly’s deck while she deals her cards in the game of skill.

Of course, we’ve each had a traumatic turning point similar to her Olympics incident, but her legacy today reminds of a truth urgently closer to home than a stray tree branch in our path. It parallels the blame both sexes share for the other’s pain, teaching us how our own greed attracts crime. Amongst the current Hollywood sex scandals, we sincerely need the proper empowerment communicated in Molly’s game.

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Review:​First order of business, I say Gary Oldman (The Dark Knight, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy) deserves to win the Oscar for Best Actor! The range of his vulnerability as Winston Churchill truly comes out through the fear echoed behind his eyes and voice, a haunting disappearance into the role.

All other ways Darkest Hour crafts Churchill should guarantee amazement, starting with the latex prosthetics used to transform Oldman into the man of the hour: a flawless milestone in Hollywood makeup design. Pretty much right away his lesser known arrogant side comes out, especially once he presses his controversial decisions to push the UK’s attack on Nazi, Germany. He publicly flaunts his odd plan by making a V handshape for the reporters, backwards by the way, which he later learns means not victory, but “up your bum.” So the balance between Churchill’s funnier, personal traits and his positive well-known qualities earns its appreciation. Our present age could use a more complete Churchill depiction, a man who shares our president’s most prominent commonalities, both good and bad.

Beyond the people, the technicians also achieve great heights without being too greedy onscreen. Production designer Sarah Greenwood (Anna Karenina, Atonement) recreates the lovely detailed historical setting by enclosing squares and circles upon a pressured Churchill. Likewise, the soft cream colors by cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel (Amélie, Inside Llewyn Davis) set up singular stark backlights to diffuse the overall appearance of what looks like an old historical tape painted by British pride. The feature’s desaturated look soon finds a rupture in its style in the heavy moment of Churchill’s first live speech, when a deep red light floods the room. Then in the post production process, massive letters tick each day by the screen as the lives at Dunkirk are at stake. Everyone's past mental scars can be seen purely by these visual decisions to enhance the feature.

Unfortunately, despite the suggested idea of pressure, the meat of the pressure leans too far toward a one-sided British monarchy. Practically no representation goes to the contributors of England's condition beyond some old news footage. The screenplay by Anthony McCarten (The Theory of Everything) does show every character fighting back whatever tough challenge they started together, though you still may want to sit back a little away from the script’s very bad breath. Clementine in particular has a quarter-baked subplot never resolved despite a pre-established anticipation for closure. All the other women either stay chained behind typewriters or at the husband’s bedside, as if cinematic diversity just fell backwards seventy-five years.

Like other hopeful Oscar contenders, the attempt to inspire here stretches too hard, especially in the final speech. It’s understandable why it took on a PG-13 rating to appeal to a profitable market, although most teenagers will find it boring, while others may find it predictable, since the script’s fear of national failure triggers an insignificant response from the target audience. Seriously, the potential in Darkest Hour’s kite rides with the wind rather than against it.

You can always count on Americans to do the right thing after they’ve tried everything else, except director Joe Wright (Anna Karenina, Pride & Prejudice) lazily relies on historical news footage to establish the era, one of the several examples that demonstrates a small imagination; ironic since Wright attempts to focus in on Churchill’s message of courage.

Perfect World Pictures ultimately thinks striking gold will guarantee financial and critical success, with the assumption that the Oscars still set their prioritized sights on British WWII era biopics. Considering the massive change the Academy’s gone through lately in terms of membership, Darkest Hour instead looks desperate alongside its winter release. Therefore, the film’s inner quarrel between the past and present loses sight of the future.

As a bonus, in this review, I slipped in three quotes from Winston Churchill and two quotes from Donald Trump. Can you find them?

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Review:​You know those annoying one-sided political ads by progressive groups? Or maybe those Facebook users who always complain about global crises without taking initiative on the real issue? Downsizing is exactly that—a tedious political ad about surface level issues.

Director Alexander Payne’s (The Descendants, Sideways) big premise conveys no excitement, consequently wobbling around a dark comedy in the start, a more Middle Earth-ish backdrop in the end, all tied together without a genre to pinpoint. You may notice these inconsistent tonal shifts too much to accept the social message, especially with an odd psychedelic acid trip thrown into the middle chunk. No clarity decides on whether to stay realistic or embrace a fantasy, since shrinking a person breaks the law of conservation of mass.

The casting decisions merely increases the number of wrong moves, primarily Christoph Waltz (Django Unchained, Inglourious Basterds), in his irritable, indistinguishable accent. Although lead actor Matt Damon (Good Will Hunting, The Martian) may not be an absolute pain to watch, his lack of enthusiasm brings out no inner ambition.

Except some cast members do try to make up for the scrambled material; attention particularly deserves to go to Thai actress Hong Chau’s (Inherent Vice) performance as a Vietnam escapee. Her motivated English-as-a-third-language speech patterns expresses an ambition to speak up in response to her origins.

So yes, potential lies about somewhere within this project; Payne’s visualization skills worked so well in the past (look at the simple monochrome cinematography in Nebraska), and now, his visuals illustrate the grandest of America’s wealth. For instance, stark white symmetrical rooms introduce the downsizing process, where behind the walls, people about to go small get their hair and teeth removed. Once shrunk down to action figure height, the new tiny city resembles the finest of America’s glory days. The journey eventually goes into the beautiful Norwegian landscapes, the mountains serving to remind us of our common smallness compared to true beauty away from the industries.

Both sides of the ultimate remedy to overpopulation mark fair arguments in some respects; the downsizing advertisements emphasize the unbelievably cheap diamonds sold in the small city, and later a regular sized saltine cracker comes in, fit to feed a whole shrunken family over a week. Plus, four years’ worth of the downsized population’s non-compostable waste can fill a single regular sized black trash bag! Likewise, the reality about a seemingly wonderful solution blows its horn: the downsizing community costs money and jobs for the regular sized folks.

Yet the terribly unbalanced moments still outweigh the good qualities; crucial beats rush past our attention, such as when the lead and his wife say goodbye to loved ones before they take on the permanent downsizing process. They share an empty relationship with one another, neither one motivated by anything to follow the societal trend to go green, just two cardboard flats cut in the shape of familiar celebrities to draw us into Paramount’s braindead pond.

In screenwriting terms, there are two types of protagonists: an active protagonist and a passive protagonist. The writer wants to avoid the latter—it means events merely happen to the character, who then thoughtlessly accepts his fate, in turn boring down the story, as what happens here. The on the nose dialogue disrupts the situations’ believability, and the unnecessary time jumps don’t give the story the time it deserves to unveil in its full potential.

If Payne instead made the Vietnamese escapee the shoes we follow in the story, rather than some dull White American male, then an interesting experience could achieve the intended goal. Also, such an idea might work better in the format of a television series, since such a high concept needs exploration beyond a couple of hours.

No other high hopes exist in Payne’s hollow technocratic machine, its downhearted look at the future simply says, “we’re meant for something bigger” but never defines that something. The word “selfie” is even said at one point, which caused me to question out of confusion whether I’m watching a potential future or an alternate present. If a director fails to notice the details, why should his credibility surpass our politicians?

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Clickhereto see how I came up with all my scores.Click here to read my autism lesson on this movie.

Review:​Here it is! My absolute favorite movie of 2017! While Star Wars: The Last Jedi comes in close at second, I still had issues about it that grew over time. Yet for The Shape of Water, it’s the opposite: the more I think about it, the more I love it!

Found in the river as a baby—abandoned by her parents, Elisa, a mute, keeps a specific daily routine in her home over Baltimore’s grand Orpheum theater. In the morning, she masturbates in the bath and hard-boils eggs; then she commutes to work, her cap used to cushion her cheek on the bus window, often mesmerized by water droplets dancing across the glass; then over the next eight hours she puts on her janitor apron to swab up a government-funded facility. So sure enough, Elisa finds a ripple to disrupt her calm life once she meets the Amazonian man-shaped fish, essentially The Creature from the Black Lagoon in design, imprisoned in the facility. The two instantly discover the great sense they have in common, since neither one of them can speak.

Even if they lack the decisive intelligence of humans, God’s animals somehow can see your true self better than people, as the anthropomorphic denizen from below does upon meeting Elisa. She shares one of her hardboiled eggs, teaching him to say “egg” in American Sign Language, like the “Project Nim” study at Columbia University. Over time, their nonverbal connection grows into something unimaginably intimate for Elisa’s inner Mary Magdalene.

Director Guillermo del Toro (Pan’s Labyrinth) sustains aquatic turquoise hues to delight his gothic, fantasized 1960s recreation, practically a giant rustic French painting. From the key lime tinted diner to a shiny new teal Cadillac, waves of despair swirl about inside what almost resembles the nearest abandoned cathedral after a flood destroyed its inner form; an immersive feel of swimming through the sets miraculously keeps itself going.

Del Toro commands your thirst without crossing into arthouse cinema mode, he just tells a straightforward story under the necessary creative choices in sound design. The beautiful sounds include the musical score’s orchestrated beauty creeping from beneath, thanks to eight-time Oscar nominee Alexandre Desplat (Argo, The Grand Budapest Hotel). The harsher sounds include the thump-squeak-thump of sex transitioned into the pulse of the facility’s prison chamber run to the same beat, as if lust is the true fuel for the drowned organization.

Everyone in the plotline whirlpool, such as some communists after the new discovery, lives a personal objectional truth about who to worship, with bits of your own identity projected upon every individual on the seafoam tinted screen. Richard Jenkins (The Visitor) portrays Elisa’s besieged artist neighbor like a spirit progressively decaying by the scenery no matter how high he tries to keep it up. Octavia Spencer (The Help, Hidden Figures) likewise highlights her subtle racial empowerment to convey a fear of racist attacks on her work ethic in an all-White facility. Although no one in the talented cast brought out the film’s aura as well as Sally Hawkins (Blue Jasmine) in the main role, commanding a quiet nature, secretly strong inside despite her weak façade.

While a few smaller actors did fail to leave a durable impression, it barely affected much beyond missed chances. Speaking of missed chances, the government’s involvement in the fishy situation could’ve been tightened up a bit to create deeper political arguments, rather than the shallow Democratic stand the script ends up taking.

Now look back at the big picture, particularly the way it channels old social issues into the US today. A rather impactful detail includes a point when Blacks in the city are refused a seat at public eateries, alongside presumed homosexuals. It reminds about the dark side of the plastered 1950’s American dream all men at the time craved to perfect. The villain in particular follows the universal dream by joyfully shocking the man-shaped thing he claimed as his trophy. According to science, no animals can ever smile or cry, so such a prize ought to be head monkey of the circus put on by US Government. This beast’s resemblance to Jesus Christ, alongside his child’s curiosity, represents Blacks, homosexuals—anyone outside the societal bubble. The real monster isn’t the hideous blue freak, but the bleach-washed success-crazed humans destined for the fate of Jonah.

Therefore, please go hear Fox Searchlight’s tale of the unbelievable romance, one which uses the supposed lies to warn you about the truth.

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If there is a specific movie you’d like to see graded, or if you are interested in guest blogging for my site, please email me at Trevor@TrevorsViewOnHollywood.com for your recommendations.​Have a great weekend, and happy watching!

Review:​5.1 metascore by users, 56% audience score on RottenTomatoes, vicious criticisms saying that this is worse than the prequels, why is it literally impossible now to please a Star Wars fan? Yes, the movie has plot holes, yes it makes you suspend your disbelief too many times, I myself can even say I had some issues with it as I walked out of the theater and my nitpicks kept going on the next day. But overall, I was more than satisfied with what I got: a thrilling Star Wars movie that never has a dull moment.

In the group of friends I went to see this with, one of them had only seen a few Star Wars movies fully in her life, but her favorite character of the saga is Jar Jar Binks. Freaking Jar Jar! But she absolutely enjoyed The Last Jedi. That’s right: a non-fan thought the movie being mercilessly attacked by its most committed followers was great. If you ask me, I say that’s proof enough that Star Wars: The Last Jedi succeeds all it intended to accomplish.

First off, the bad. The amount of humor put in throughout the movie is way too excessive. The Force Awakens, pulled off some phenomenal humor but still knew when to be serious. This time around, the jokes are constant, even hurting the most touching moments with a quick snarky one-liner. It certainly succeeded in making me laugh quite a lot, but the already emotionally powerful story could have been so much greater without the Porgs.

With the characters themselves, their arcs are not as fully realized as they could have been. Finn’s arc could have been so effective here like how it was in The Force Awakens, but instead he’s pretty much just there to exist and move the plot along. He shares a weak romantic subplot with a new character, a young, eager member of the Resistance named Rose, who’s just there really to deliver the message in the end.

Then there are the other old flaws of the entire Star Wars franchise, such as expositiony dialogue, but newer flaws are unique to just this movie. One scene features a new world that looks like a steampunk Great Gatsby with a casino setting that feels very out of place for Star Wars, it’s literally another Cantina scene. So basically, I understand the hate from old fans: it’s difference in style alters what’s already established. But different is good! With everything this movie does wrong, there’s just as much, possibly more, that it does right!

First of all, the look to the film is gritty yet stellar. The casino looks lavish with spice while the space battles above the civil life bombards with grand explosions. The world of Ahch-To is absolutely gorgeous with its design of the strange life that lives there. It always seems to rain there, even when it isn’t, which complements the condition of Luke’s damp relationship with the force. A new planet with a crystalline design holds the base for the final battle, and it’s a visual splendor to watch as the ships glide over a vast salt bed over red dust. Beneath the surface of this planet, a space battle takes itself down under through a crimson geode. Even in the throne room of Supreme Leader Snoke, pure red overpowers the screen.

The much more intimate moments had so many moments when I held my breath in shock and anticipation, questioning what will happen. What helps is not just the question as to who Rey’s parents are or stuff like that, but the kinesthetic relationships with some of the more prevalent characters. While some of the character relationships needed work, others, such as the force sensitive bond between Rey and Kylo Ren, were mesmerizing to watch. You even get to see a bit more of Finn’s arc with Captain Phasma fulfilled in one awesome piece of combat! There are plenty of other lightsaber duels and battle sequences that are filled with fun moments and epic choreography.

I particularly like how Kylo Ren is far more complex than the typical bad guy, and you can see past his emo hair to empathize with the corrupted, scared little child he truly is. Rey’s little training sessions, as few as they are, also command your attention as Luke observes what she already knows, and how he in turn learns from her, a classic mentorship bond.

So guys, stop setting such unrealistically high expectations for Star Wars. All the flaws about this movie, as viable as they are, are not new to the entire Star Wars series. With all the fan theories and expanded universe that try to add ownership to the fictional world, we forgot one thing about this property we’ve now gotten so serious about: watching Star Wars is supposed to be fun! That’s what I did with my friends on Thursday night, we went to have a good time and we got it. I’m not usually one to tolerate talking during a movie, but I was sharing little verbal exchanges with my friend I was sitting next to while watching the movie, and we all cheered and laughed with the rest of the crowd. The result, we had a fun, memorable night that made my friend’s 25th birthday very special. So long story short, stop getting so worked up, have some fun!

Thanks so much for your time in reading! Please subscribe to my site for more updates on reviews.

If there is a specific movie you’d like to see graded, or if you are interested in guest blogging for my site, please email me at Trevor@TrevorsViewOnHollywood.com for your recommendations.​Have a great weekend, and happy watching!